


Are You Watching?

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Porn, Post Samaritan, The Machine playing matchmaker, one-sided watching, the boys can't talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: John masturbates once a day...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's talk of masturbation and toys and John being the object of Harold's stalker-tendencies.

John masturbated once a day, after his run in the morning while he showered. Quick and efficient, it dealt with the problem so he could concentrate on other things. The CIA encouraged the behavior, wanting him as focused on the missions as possible. 

He hadn’t bothered masturbating while he wandered New York as a homeless man, depressed about losing Jessica and unable to do more than drink himself to death. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped doing it. 

When he started working for Finch, when he had regular meals and sleep, when he started caring about his appearance again and had a reason to get up in the morning, his libido came back. So he took care of it the same way he’d done most of his life. Five minutes to shower, three minutes to jerk off, two minutes to finish the rest of his bathroom routine and five minutes to dress. 

Out the front door in 15 minutes. 

Only it was taking longer than it used to. Now his time was up to 20 minutes because he had better clothes and had to be more careful with them. He had fragrant soap provided by Finch that lathered wonderfully and made him want to bask in the sensations. He had a loft all to himself, and a shower that put any other he’d ever used to shame and _never_ ran out of hot water. 

It was also taking longer to jerk off. 

He had no idea why. 

He’d never been into fantasies while he did it. He didn’t picture himself doing things or supermodels or past relationships. He didn’t watch porn. He went for sensation over any other stimuli. 

He liked Finch’s soap. It felt good on his skin, extra-slick and sweet-smelling. At first it was enough. Then he had to switch to lube, and while needing that was embarrassing enough since he’d never needed it before, that a new brand appeared in his shower stall a week later made him want to cry in shame and anger. 

He used it, though, and the anger helped him come faster. 

He didn’t say anything to Finch. 

His morning routine stayed steady at 30 minutes for weeks. 

Then he happened to think of Finch as he was applying the newest brand of lube, thinking of him standing at a glass counter with an array of sample bottles, testing them between his fingers and wondering to himself which John would like most. 

He came almost immediately. 

He got his routine down to 25 minutes, then back to 20. 

“You seem relaxed lately, Mr. Reese,” Finch commented one morning as they met for breakfast. 

“New exercise routine,” John answered. He’d allowed himself to picture Finch in the shower stall with him for the first time, applying the lube the way he would to himself. Seventeen minutes total. 

He wondered if Finch watched him when he showered, and the thought had him half-hard in an instant. He focused on breathing and breakfast and ignoring the tightness between his legs. Fortunately, he was in another of the custom tailored suits, and the button fly was good at hiding the evidence of his distraction. 

He took a shower before bed that night, long and hot, filling the bathroom with steam. He thought about Finch watching again and touched himself slowly, drawing it out in a way he’d never done. He tried to make it last as long as possible. He leaned his back against the cool tiles and spread his legs so the water hit his groin, an exquisite mix of pleasure and slight pain. He closed his eyes and held himself from below, letting the water do the work for a while, then brought himself off in three quick tugs when he couldn’t stand it any longer. 

Finch didn’t treat him any differently the next day, or any other day after he’d tried to make a show of jerking off. 

He wasn’t surprised, though, to find a slender butt plug in his bathroom a week later. Finch liked to wait a week before adding or changing something, John had noted. He took it for a test run. 

Breaking the pattern, a new plug sat waiting for him when he got home the next day. He still hadn’t found the camera, but he grinned nonetheless. 

“I prefer the length of the first one but the width of the second,” he said when he was done. He had no idea if there was a microphone — he hadn’t considered that until this very moment. “Maybe with ridges,” he added. 

A currier delivered a discreet brown paper-wrapped package within five minutes of him waking up. He skipped his morning run. 

Finch seemed a bit pink under his collar that morning, though he remained as placid as ever. John let him see his smile. 

John still had no idea where the camera was, even though he’d torn his bathroom apart looking for it. He couldn’t find the mike, either. He didn’t mind. Now that he knew he was showing off for Finch whenever he was in the shower, his morning jerk-off settled back down to a quickie and he saved the real show for nighttime when they’d have more leisure to enjoy it. 

One night he was too tired to do more than wash their number’s blood off his body. He lay down in bed afterwards and closed his eyes. He felt the slight breeze of air conditioning on his naked skin. 

“Do you like this?” he asked aloud, not sure if Finch would hear him but not sure he wouldn’t, either. “What we’ve been doing?” He paused, trailing a hand over his chest, down his stomach. He held himself for a moment, letting the warmth of his hand sink into his dick. “Is it enough?” 

He didn’t get an answer, not that he expected one. 

Three nights later he got into bed with the intention of making it last for Finch’s enjoyment. He still hadn’t found any cameras in his loft, but he knew Finch would be able to see him. He wondered if there were more than one, if Finch had several angles to choose from when he watched him. 

He started slowly, stroking himself, cupping his balls, circling a finger along his rim. He closed his eyes and imagined the possibilities. Him and Finch, in his bed, touching each other, kissing. 

“I think about kissing you,” he said into the air. “I think about stripping down for you, lying here for you to touch. I think about sucking you off.” He started moving his hand faster. 

“I think about pressing you down into the sheets as I take you,” he continued. “I think about you telling me what you want, ordering me to obey your every whim.” He forgot about the cameras and wanting to make a show for Finch. He tugged harder at his dick. 

“I think about you inside me instead of these damned toys.” 

He licked his finger and prodded at his opening. 

“I’m clean, you know. Got tested last week. But you probably know that, don’t you?” He pressed harder and buried his finger as far as it would go. “Sometimes I dream of you coming inside me,” he added in a hoarse voice. “Hot and wet and messy. I bet you don’t like the mess. You’d probably want to wear a condom anyway, even if we were both clean. But I want it messy. I want to feel it and taste it and smell it. I want to know it was _you_ inside me.” 

He groaned, pressing his prostate as he jerked himself even more quickly. 

“You got me into this, don’t you think it’s time you finished it?” he asked, pulling his finger free to hold himself in both hands as he came. 

Finch didn’t say anything the next morning. He didn’t acknowledge that John had said anything the night before, and John wondered if he’d seen or heard what he’d done. Either way, he felt the sting of rejection. 

“John, I hate to ask such a personal question,” Finch said one afternoon later in the week as they walked Bear. “But is something amiss? You’ve seemed dispirited lately.” 

John snorted through his nose. “As if _you_ fucking care,” he barked before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Finch alone on the sidewalk with the dog. 

He didn’t go to his loft. 

Finch left him alone, only calling when there was a number. He seemed content to maintain a professional distance between them. He didn’t ask after John’s mental health again. 

John went to his loft for the first time in over a month when he got shot in the arm, intending to take care of it himself. He didn’t expect Finch to be waiting in front of his door sitting on a hard rolling case. 

“I figured you wouldn’t come to the Library,” Finch said, standing and moving aside so John could let them in. “But your wound needs care, and since you also won’t go see one of the doctors I have on retainer…” He trailed off. He looked up at John with fierce determination. “I don’t know why you think I wouldn’t care about you, and I don’t expect you to tell me, since you’ve kept it to yourself so long. I’m here to tend your wound, then I’ll leave.” 

John tried to stare him down, but he blinked first and looked away. He opened the door and motioned for Finch to go first. The case contained a portable medical supply closet, and Finch set about organizing himself quickly and efficiently. John watched in agitated silence as his arm throbbed and oozed. 

Finch had become more adept at sewing cuts and gashes, and closing up the bullet wound was more about concentration and steady hands than anything else. A through-and-through, there were two holes to fix and no bullet to fish out. As John sat on the lid of his toilet, shirtless, with Finch next to him touching his skin with nitrile-covered fingers and talking himself softly through the procedure, he felt suddenly empty. 

“You never said anything,” John whispered as Finch cleaned up, putting the trash in a bag to take to the incinerator later and sorting the tools back into the case. 

“Pardon me?” 

“You want to know what’s wrong? You didn’t say anything.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

John turned to face him. “I’m talking about you watching me jerk off in the shower!” 

Finch’s eyes became comically wide behind his glasses and his entire face turned bright red. “It was one time!” he exclaimed. “You were running late and I wanted to check on you. I saw what you were doing and turned the camera off. Why would I say anything and make things awkward between us? Have you known this whole time?” Finch pulled off the nitrile gloves and backed away. “I apologize if I went past a boundary, Mr. Reese, but I swear to you that I didn’t intend —“ 

“Once? You’ve been doing it for months!” 

“No,” Finch insisted. “Why would I invade your privacy like that? That’s just —“ He drew himself to his full height. “I’m fully capable of finding pornography if I choose, Mr. Reese. I don’t need to violate you to watch men pleasure themselves.” He tossed the gloves in the bag and turned to go. “I’d appreciate it if you took care of the rest,” he said. 

“Finch!” 

Finch continued walking, his back to John as he buttoned his shirt cuffs. 

“Harold!” John called, getting to his feet to follow him. “Wait.” 

Finch shrugged on his suit jacket. 

“Was it really only that one time?” 

“Yes,” Finch answered curtly. 

“I thought — I thought you’d been doing it for months, that it was a game we didn’t talk about… I —“ 

Finch turned back, his expression softer, less guarded. “You wanted me to be watching?” 

John lowered his head, his own cheeks becoming pink. “I told you what I wanted one night. When you didn’t respond, I figured you were rejecting the idea.” 

“So you started distancing yourself,” Finch mused. “Then when I asked how you were feeling, you thought it was the ultimate rejection, because if I’d been playing whatever game you thought we were playing, I’d have mentioned it.” John nodded, feeling miserable and exposed. Finch closed his eyes for a moment. “Why don’t I put on some tea,” he suggested, opening his eyes. 

John shrugged, felt the stitches pull, then went to get a shirt. 

“Why don’t we start at the beginning,” Harold said, for he’d shed his jacket again and seemed less like Finch and more like Harold. He poured tea from a teapot, added milk and sugar, and handed John his cup on a saucer. He picked up his own and took a careful sip. 

“I started thinking about you when I jerked off,” John admitted, his head down, not meeting Harold’s eyes. “Stuff started showing up here, lube, that kind of thing.” 

“Toys?” Harold asked gently. John nodded. 

“I thought it meant you were watching, that you liked what you saw, that you wanted to watch me use them.” 

“That I was sending these things to you,” Harold supplied. John nodded again. 

“I liked the idea. I started showing off. Then I said it out loud, that I — that I wanted you here instead of on the other end of a camera.” 

Harold sipped his tea again, his brow knit in thought. “Is that what you want, John? A sexual relationship with me?” 

“Yes,” John answered, his voice barely audible. 

“I can’t say that I’ve ever known that I was the object of someone’s fantasies before,” Harold murmured. There was a very long pause. It stretched and stretched until John had to look up to see Harold’s expression. “But you’ve been in mine for a long time,” he added with a genuineness that John didn’t question. 

“Really?” 

“I haven’t said anything, of course, because of the ethical —“ 

“We hardly have a traditional employer/employee relationship,” John interrupted, feeling himself start to breathe again. 

“True, however I promised myself that I wouldn’t be the one to broach the topic, if it ever came up between us.” 

“If I’d asked what you wanted, without telling you how I felt first, would you have told me?” 

“Probably not. Though I realize that might have scuttled any opportunity for something to develop, I have a moral code that I try to adhere to, as you know.” 

John set his tea down, then reached to take Harold’s from him. Their fingers brushed, and he realized it had been weeks since there’d been a casual touch between them. He rested his hand on Harold’s knee. 

“John, if we do this, you have to know that Grace —“ He stopped and looked away for a moment. “If there were ever a time when she and I could be together… I — I couldn’t be with you any longer.” 

“Yeah, I figured it’d be that way,” John replied. 

“Knowing that, you’d still want to be with me?” 

“If that time comes, I doubt I’d be around to see it,” John said pragmatically. “And if I were, well, I’d just want to make sure she wasn’t another Peter Arndt before I left you to her care.” 

“She’s not.” 

“I’d still have to vet her. I can’t live through that again, losing someone because I wasn’t there to protect them from their seemingly better life.” 

Harold nodded. “I understand.” He covered John’s hand with his own. 


	2. After Samaritan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years after the first chapter, John wakes up in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this story deserved a little more than I'd written. Enjoy!

John woke in a hospital room surrounded by strangers. Three doctors, a nurse and two physician’s assistants, if he read their body language and clothing correctly. His eyes weren’t focusing well enough to read the nametags. He hadn’t expected to wake up, considering that the last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Harold from a different rooftop and defending the Machine’s upload to the satellite to destroy Samaritan and getting shot multiple times. 

After being assured that he was going to live, and told how miraculous that prognosis was at all, he finally got a moment alone to think. He was in a hospital. He was alive. His name, according to his chart, was John Doe. 

He doubted if Harold knew he was alive. 

The phone by his bedside rang. He picked it up. 

“Can you hear me, John?” the Machine asked with Root’s voice. 

“Yes,” he answered, because what else had he ever said to that question from that entity? 

“Good. Lionel is on his way with clothing and John Wiley’s ID for you.” 

“You’re springing me from here?” he asked, already struggling to sit up. 

“Yes, and I’ve arranged a private jet so you can catch up to Harold in Rome,” she said with a smirk in her voice. “It’s fueled and on stand-by, ready to go as soon as you get there.” 

“Rome?” John breathed. “You mean he’s gone back to Grace?” 

“Not yet, but he’s thinking about it. I tried to tell him that you survived, but he hasn’t been listening to me.” 

John closed his eyes in pain. 

“Do _not_ let him go without a fight,” Root barked in his ear. “I didn't send you all those butt plugs so you could give up!” 

His eyes flew open. “That was you?” 

“Of course it was me,” she responded, calmer. “Who else would do something like that?” 

“Harold…” 

“Didn’t know it was happening, remember? He probably figured it out as soon as you said something to him, though.” 

“Then why wouldn’t he tell me?” 

“You know Harry and how he needs his secrets,” she replied, now sounding annoyed the way Root would when Harold did something she didn’t approve of but knew he’d do anyway. “I think he thought you’d have figured it out, too,” she added. 

John sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand. “It’s not worth it. I’m not chasing him across the globe to be thrown over for the woman he’s wanted all along. He _told_ me he’d leave me for her. I _knew_ it would happen.” 

“You don’t like it,” she protested softly, showing a genuine caring Root rarely did. 

“No, I don’t like it, but that’s the way it is. I’m not going against his wishes.” 

There was a long pause as the Machine thought about her answer. He wondered how much of the pause was for his benefit. 

“If you won’t go to him to be with him, at least go to say goodbye,” she said. “He’d want to know that you’re alive.” 

“I can’t argue with that,” John whispered, feeling defeat curl in his gut. He’d known Harold would leave him, and he thought he’d be ok with it, but… 

“Excellent. Lionel’s in the elevator.” 

. 

. 

. 

Gianni recognized John immediately, exclaiming happily that his favorite customer’s lover had returned. John kept his face blank. He wasn’t Harold’s lover at the moment, since Harold was even now meeting with Grace, according to the Machine, and he’d hardly call the year while they were in hiding from Samaritan much of a relationship. They’d barely been on the same page about the numbers, let alone anything else, and they hadn’t even managed to have sex more than once a month, thanks to all the extra work of living two lives. 

That, and John’s spectacular error of judgement in falling into Iris’ arms. Harold told him he forgave him, and that it wasn’t his fault, and that as his therapist she’d violated boundaries and ethics and manipulated John into it, but he had a hard time forgiving himself. 

And Harold had said from the beginning that he’d return to Grace… 

“No! How can you wear such a thing?” Gianni demanded when he picked up the jacket his assistant helped John out of. “This! The fabric, the cut, all wrong for you!” 

John grimaced to himself. Though he flew on John Wiley’s passport, the Machine had provided one of John Riley’s suits via Lionel, and Riley hadn’t had Harold’s (or even Wiley's) finances to draw from when picking out clothing. He’d had to buy off the rack, hating every moment now that he’d become used to Harold’s tastes — which had only grown more expensive as their relationship developed, culminating in that first visit to Gianni, not to mention the subsequent ones. As Riley, it had been a luxury to have the pants hemmed appropriately and the jacket re-sized for his need for quick movement. 

“We broke up,” John said, answering Gianni’s question of why Harold wasn’t with him. “Figured I’d get one more suit out of him,” he added bitterly, stepping onto the stand so Gianni could measure him. 

“No!” Gianni exclaimed, louder than when he’d complained of Riley’s suit. “He is still in Rome, yes? You will win him back!” He shouted for his assistant to get something from the back. 

“I don’t think so,” John protested, though a part of him hoped Gianni could work a miracle that would at least let him say goodbye to Harold with dignity. “He went back to his fiancee.” 

“I will make you most handsome,” Gianni added as if John hadn’t spoken. He patted John’s arm companionably and called for his assistant again. Anthony reappeared with three other young men and a half-finished suit. A light gray with a subtle blue glen check, it was like no suit John had ever worn, though Harold often went for such patterns. “The blue, it brings out your eyes,” Gianni explained. “And it is soon to be summer, yes? You must dress with the seasons. He will be amazed! He has never seen you in such a suit, yes? You prefer the black and white, the contrast. That is why this will work. You will show him that you change for him.” 

“I’m not sure he would want that,” John mumbled, not wanting to distract Gianni when he was clearly in the middle of a sartorial epiphany. 

“Yes,” Gianni countered. “Yes, he will like this very much,” he said, already sifting through shirts and ties and socks while his assistants took measurements and started assembling the suit. One ran off to the cobbler’s shop down the street, bringing the owner and his own assistant, ready to work. John remembered him from the times he’d been to his shop with Harold. He hadn’t seen the need for hand-crafted thousand-dollar shoes at the time, and still didn’t, but Gianni was insistent, and his friend took up the mantle of helping John and Harold’s relationship. 

The romanticism of the Italians hard at work. 

“Bah! You will bring him tomorrow,” Gianni said when he refused John’s credit card. 

John didn’t usually wear a vest when he wore suits (other than kevlar), that was Harold’s thing, but Gianni had insisted, so he left the shop in the glen check suit with a solid slate blue vest with a daring madras shirt in white, blue and black and a paisley tie of three different blues — with a hint of purple, for seduction, Gianni explained. He felt like a million dollars — or he would have if he knew he’d have more than an awkward goodbye with Harold. 

. 

. 

.


	3. Confronting Harold and Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds Harold and Grace, thanks to an intervention by the Machine. What will happen with his broken heart now?

The Machine gave him directions to the restaurant where Harold and Grace were having dinner, and he walked, wanting to get rid of some of the nervous energy filling him.

“I should warn you that he’s been shot,” the Machine told him as he rounded the corner.

He jerked to a stop. “What? When?”

“When you were in the vault.”

“He has a week-old wound?” John demanded, picking up his pace. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? How’s it healing?”

“Dr. Madani stitched him up and gave him medicine, but Harold took three days to get to him and left the hospital as soon as he could slip away. I think it's infected, but he's been careful not to look at it where I could see.”

“I’ll take care of it,” John promised, spotting Grace’s bright red hair from halfway down the block. They were just walking into the restaurant.

Even in a ridiculously ostentatious suit, John found it easy to slip into the restaurant and case the place. It was the sort of four-star exclusive eatery that Harold had always tried to take him, but John consistently refused. He didn’t need a $100 steak, he’d said, it would taste the same as a $20 one, and Harold had laughed, replying that the steak would be closer to $300 and well worth the price.

Harold and Grace were in the back, against a wall, away from the kitchen and restrooms. Though Harold’s back was to the door, John approved of the seating arrangement. He would have been in Grace’s place to keep an eye out for danger, of course. There were flowers and a candle on the table, and wine arrived even as he watched. Harold tasted it and approved, then took Grace’s hand while the waiter poured for them.

John saw red. He’d never been a jealous man, he couldn’t be in his line of work, but seeing them sitting there, clasping hands like they were the long-lost lovers they were, he felt a rage descend onto him that blanked out everything else. He knew it wouldn’t show on his face. His eyes, though, Harold would see the anger. He might even be able to see the jealousy.

He shut his eyes and did a quick exercise to banish the feelings. Harold had been shot and needed medical attention, since he wasn’t taking care of himself on his own. The Machine had been clear on that when she fed him more details as he caught up with them. There was no room for John’s feelings when Harold needed medical attention.

There was no way John could win Harold back, either, he realized, not with Grace alive and well and gazing at him with such adoration. He just had to look the other way, take care of Harold, and melt into the crowd before Harold realized he was gone to nurse his broken heart in peace. Or in a bottle, whichever.

He’d never been good with feelings.

He plucked a glass from a passing waiter’s tray and downed the scotch in one gulp, letting the burn of the liquor focus him. The waiter didn’t even notice it was gone until he got to his table and found it missing. _Amateurs,_ John scoffed, ridding himself of the glass.

Grace saw John first as he stepped towards them, allowing himself to be seen. Harold turned to look, responding to her tiny shriek of recognition. He froze, his eyes wide, as John crossed the room, gliding smoothly around the tables. He stopped in front of theirs, spared a glance at Grace, then turned his attention to Harold, who’d pushed himself to his feet.

“Where were you shot?” he asked in a low, threatening voice, not bothering with pleasantries when he knew the outcome of the night.

Instinctively, Harold pressed his hand to his side, and John had his shirttail out of his pants a moment later. Shielding Harold with his body from possible onlookers, it took less time to lift the bandage, prod the wound and replace both the bandage and Harold’s clothing than for Harold to squawk his name indignantly.

“Mr. Reese! What on Earth —“

“It’s infected,” John interrupted.

Harold closed his mouth tightly, responding to the banked anger in John’s voice and manner. “I know. I have antibiotics in my hotel room,” he admitted.

“Pill or IV?”

“IV.”

“When’s your next dose?”

“He’s over an hour late,” the Machine said in his ear at the same time as Harold looked away, calculating time differences.

“I should’ve had it an hour ago,” Harold said softly. “I lost track of time.”

John smiled, not caring that it would look unfeeling or cold. He was numb with loss already. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Harold’s shoulder and propelling him towards the exit. “She can come if she wants,” he added as an afterthought when he noticed Grace gathering her pocketbook.

“John—“

“Don’t make me any angrier than I already am, Harold,” John growled as they walked. “I had my antibiotics in the hospital. What’s your excuse?”

“I — I —“

“In,” John barked, opening the door to a cab.

“John, I don’t understand,” Harold said as the cabbie drove. “What are you doing here? How did you survive? What —“

“I’m here to make sure you don’t die from your own stupidity,” John interrupted. “I won’t overstay my welcome.”

“You haven’t given me a chance to welcome you!” Harold exclaimed. “You show up out of nowhere when I thought you were dead, kidnap me, and —“ He broke off, his eyes flickering to Grace, on the other side of John, who’d taken the middle seat. “You haven’t let me introduce you to Grace,” Harold finished softly.

“We’ve met,” John hissed, not bothering to modulate his voice and hide his anger.

“Well, you’re being extremely rude.”

John didn’t respond. He watched as Harold tried to apologize silently to Grace over his head, but she just shook her head and turned to look out the window. He maintained his silence as they arrived at the hotel, took the elevator to the room, and entered. Harold hadn’t unpacked, his suitcase sitting on a stand next to the closet, untouched. John stalked over and began rifling through it.

“Harold, what’s going on?” Grace asked in a whisper John could hear from the other room. “He’s nothing like he was when I met him. He’s so — cold. Angry, even.”

“I’m not sure,” Harold answered. “I’ve only seen him like this once before, and that was when one of our companions died. Could Ms. Shaw or Detective Fusco…?”

“Bathroom, now,” John called, hands full of medical equipment. At least Harold had brought what he’d need to take care of himself, even if he wasn’t doing it yet.

Harold hesitated at the door, watching John set out the supplies on the counter. “John, please talk to me,” he said, holding on to the door jam. “Why are you — Is that a summer suit from Gianni?” he asked, interrupting himself. He rushed forward to take a corner of the jacket in his hand and feel the fabric. “It is! When did you…? Why?” Harold frowned, so lost in thought he allowed John to remove his jacket and vest without a protest. “You came for me,” he said, realization making him light-headed. He sank down on the closed toilet lid. “You came because I was here.”

“I’m not staying,” John said, his eyes locked on what his hands were doing. “I just wanted you to know I’m alive.”

“Why aren’t you staying?” Harold asked, confusion filling his voice.

“I know the score, Harold. I’ll go quietly and you can have the life you wanted.”

“The life I wanted…?”

John pressed his lips together. “Take off your shirt.”

“John, why do you think I’m here?”

“Grace is here. Where else would you be?”

Harold closed his eyes and allowed John to remove his shirt, tie and undershirt. He sat in silence as John removed the bandage, cleaned the wound, checked it more carefully, and rebandaged it. He hissed in pain when John inserted the IV, but it didn’t hurt for long, and soon John had the needle taped in place and hooked up to the antibiotics. John had a gentle touch when he wanted to use it, and his hand lingered on Harold’s forearm for a few seconds before he pulled away.

“It’ll be about half-an-hour,” John said softly. He sat on the edge of the oversized jacuzzi tub and put his head in his hands, suddenly weary. “I’ll leave then.”

“Why?” Harold asked again, sadness creeping into his tone. “Why would you leave?”

“He thinks we’re getting back together,” Grace said from the doorway. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched them, her eyes doleful and compassionate.

Harold’s eyes shot open. He turned his body to face John, who’d looked up at hearing her voice. “Is that true? Is _that_ what you think?”

“That’s what you said at the beginning,” John answered stiffly. “You said you’d leave me for her.”

“That was _four years ago!_ ” Harold exclaimed. “You didn’t think I’d change my mind since then? What we’ve been through… what we’ve done…”

“You’re here,” John pointed out. “I saw you holding hands at the restaurant.”

“I was telling her about you!”

John’s eyes moved to look at Grace, who nodded in confirmation.

“He thought you were dead and came to the only person he felt close to in the world,” she said.

“You’re still wearing his ring,” John protested, feeling sick to his stomach.

Grace glanced down at her finger and the diamond engagement ring she hadn’t taken off.

“That’s unfair,” Harold interjected. “She’s only known I’m alive for a few hours. She’s barely had time to get over the shock.”

John opened his mouth to speak again, but Grace stopped him in his tracks.

“The first thing he told me was that he’d just lost his lover,” she said softly, her voice growing stronger with each sentence. “He called you his ‘partner in everything that matters.’ Then he apologized and asked if I’d be willing to ‘consider’ being his friend after he ‘betrayed’ me by faking his death and falling in love with someone else,” she added, the quotes around Harold’s words clear from just her tone.

“I’ve spent the last two years getting used to the idea that he’s been out in the world staying away from me to keep me safe. I didn’t need to see him in the piazza to know that’s what was happening,” she continued. “I knew it as soon as that horrible man started asking questions about him. Harold is a wonderful, kind, generous man. I’d be surprised if he didn’t find someone else to love in all the time we’ve been apart.”

She took the ring off her finger and held it up. “I wear this as a reminder that I’ve loved and been loved in return. I wear this as a hope that Harold’s alive. I wear this to honor him.” She put it back on her finger decisively. “I also know we’re not going to marry. He would have come to me sooner if he wanted that.”

“Grace,” Harold whispered, extending a hand to her. She took it and walked over to hug him.

“I love you, Harold. I want you to be happy, and if John makes you happy, I want you with him.” She kissed his forehead. “I’ll _always_ be your friend,” she finished. “And I’ll _always_ forgive you.”

John watched them embrace in silence for a moment.

“Now do you understand, John?” Harold asked, opening his eyes to meet John’s as Grace stepped away. “I came to Grace for comfort and to renew a friendship. _You_ are my partner now, if you want me.”

“How could I not want you?” John replied, feeling the anger slipping away to be replaced with hope. “I gave my life for you, so you could live. I — I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.”

“And I love you,” Harold said. He turned to Grace.

“Why don’t we all meet for lunch tomorrow?” she suggested. “I’d like to meet the man who’s stolen Harold’s heart.”

“You don’t want —“

“I have a boyfriend,” Grace said, interrupting John. “He’s a writer. I could see if he’s available tomorrow?”

Harold shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait to meet him, lovely as I’m sure he is.”

“Your boyfriend’s ok with you wearing Harold’s ring?” John asked, curious and much more relaxed now that he knew he didn’t have competition for Harold’s affections.

“I was planning on wearing it until 2020, the ten-year anniversary of Harold going missing, if he hadn’t shown up,” she answered. “Richie understands that.” She paused, twisting the ring on her finger. “I might change my mind, now that I know you’re alive,” she continued, addressing Harold.

“Perfectly understandable, my dear,” Harold replied.

“Now, I imagine the two of you have some catching up to do that doesn’t involve me. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, bending to kiss first his cheek, then John’s.

“How are you both so… logical about all this?” John asked Harold once they were alone.

“For one thing, we’ve spent the last six hours talking,” Harold answered. “I knew about Richie before I arrived in Italy, but hadn’t gotten around to asking about the ring.”

“You already knew she had a boyfriend?”

“I wasn’t going to come present myself to her without doing research beforehand,” Harold replied. “I looked into the past few years of her life while I was on the plane over here. She and Richie have been dating five and a half months.”

John nodded. He glanced at the IV bag. “Nauseated yet?”

“I —“

A knock on the door interrupted Harold, and John drew his gun.

“Relax, you big lummox, it’s just room service,” the Machine said in his ear. “I didn’t want Harold to get his meds on an empty stomach.” John put away his gun and went to answer the door. “I ordered something for you, too,” she added when John saw how many covered dishes the waiter had on his tray.

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End file.
